A Long Way To The Witch's House
by babybluecas
Summary: Dean and Cas stray off their usual trick-or-treating path.


Up, up the hill the two boys go, along a path narrow and steep. Wet leaves and mud slip out from under their feet, time after time, and they grasp each other's sleeves not to fall down on their butts. Behind them, the orange sun hangs low, casting long, wiry shadows of the trees that engulf them. The high branches weave intricate arches above; the low ones reach out to whip their faces, tug their hair, grasp the fabric of the costumes in their claws.

"Not much farther," Dean says for the third time this evening. His voice, though hushed, thunders in the surrounding silence.

Silence. This isn't right. The roar of the cars rushing down the main street, the voices of their peers trick-or-treating, as they should — Cas could swear he could still hear them a moment ago. Now, there's nothing but the rustle of the wind in the bushes.

"We should go back."

Dean doesn't stop nor turns his steps around. Cas didn't expect him to. He's dead set on the mission, he's been going on and on about it for days, crafted the entire plan on yesterday's lunch break.

 _Ten minutes both ways at best_ , he promised. _No one will even notice we were gone._

"Uncle will kill me," Cas explains as if it's a new information. "Literally!"

Dean comments on the dramatism with a snort.

"Nah, he just won't let you talk to me for eternity," he adds, after a thought, with too much lightness for a matter that grave. "I'm bad influence," he mocks.

"What's the difference?" Cas blurts.

He's not quick enough to drop eyes to the ground. He catches Dean's gaze, so soft it sets his cheeks aflame.

"Think that it." Dean points ahead to more trees. "There, just off the path."

Cas is quick to suspect he's only tried to change the topic, and maybe he did, but up ahead, still half hidden behind thick tree trunks, there is a dark shape, just outside the sun's reach.

"I hope so," Cas replies, picking up his pace.

He doesn't wait for Dean to catch up. The terrain's even here, there's no need for precaution anymore. A few strides and a turn, and right before him it appears. The old cabin with moss growing up its front wall, weeds outgrowing what used to be a garden, the remains of the fence around it.

The Witch's House, they call it.

Every kid in the town has heard of it and every kid has heard the cautionary tales. Terrifying and bloody stories, spread by peers and adults alike. They never failed to lift the hairs on Cas's nape, though maybe it was just something in the way they've been told, in hushed voices, on playgrounds in the gray of early evenings and around the fire in the summer with the darkness creeping up behind his back.

The story itself? It seemed to change every time someone took a turn at it. The earliest version Cas ever heard was one with an old, child-eating witch living in the House for centuries — that's where the shack got its name. His favorite — if he can call it that — is the one where the witch is long dead and her ghost still roams, tied into the House for all eternity, and steals souls of whoever dares to come inside.

All those stories have one thing in common, for sure: whoever passes the threshold of the Witch's House, never comes out of it.

"You now those are just urban legends, right?" Dean murmurs, appearing at his side. There must be something in Cas's posture, maybe on his face, that gives away his hesitation, the chills running up his spine at the very sight of the shack. "Ghosts don't exist."

Cas bites his lip. "Witches do," he says in the plainest voice he can muster.

"Not that kind of witches," Dean assures. "Besides, I heard Alistair and his gang bragging about spending the whole night in there last year."

Cas doesn't even try to hold back a grimace. "Soul stealing ghosts are still a possibility, then?"

Dean chuckles and lands a palm on Cas's shoulder, heavy, comforting. "It'll protect you."

Cas scowls at him, on principle only. He's got no need to defend his pride or skills in front of Dean, he's proved himself more than enough times. They've been through much together, after all.

There's just something about this house he can't shake off. But Dean's right, must be the toll of his childhood lived in the looming shadow of it.

Still…

"I don't like it, Dean," he mutters, watching Dean's fingers cautiously as they land on the splintered plank of the wicket and begin to push. "Why do we have to go there?"

The tired cry of the hinges makes Cas's skin crawl.

"Because you double-dared me."

"I di—" Cas inhales sharply, closes his eyes and prays for a little more patience. Of course. Of course it's all about that. "It was a joke, Dean," he enunciates each word to get them through to Dean's skull. "You know you don't have to—"

Dean lifts his palm to cut him off. His face solemn as if it's an official oath that he's taking.

"Double dares are no jokes and I'm not gonna back down."

Cas gives out a growl worthy of the toothy monster he poses for, tonight. He should have kept his mouth shut, he should have known Dean would take his offhand teasing way too seriously.

"You stubborn—"

"Hey, you don't wanna go with me, you don't have to," Dean snaps, already one foot past the wicket.

Cas doesn't move an inch. He's not even _not_ -scared anymore, he's verging on pissed at Dean's pigheadedness. If he ends up in trouble just because of a dumb dare. If Dean gets hurt — or worse… No, this is just an old, abandoned shack. The worst thing that can happen to him is a splinter.

"Great!" Cas calls, taking a few steps back. "Because I'm not walking in there! I'm going back."

"Fine!"

"Fine!" Cas turns away and begins his trek home. Uncle might have noticed his absence by now and he's got a long way to go until he reaches home. Still, he looks back. "Don't think I'll come rescue you!"

"Don't come apologizing when my soul gets eaten!" Dean shouts back.

"I won't!"

And that's that. They part. Dean stubbornly treading through the weeds intruding on the path, Cas in the opposite direction. He doesn't get far, though, he hardly even reaches the turn. And Dean, he already seems so far away, nearly reached the wooden stairs.

"Wait!" Cas calls, unsure Dean heard him at all.

He rushes back to the fence, past the wicket, ignores the goosebumps rising on his skin. He doesn't stop until his shoulder bumps into Dean's.

"I knew you'd come anyway," Dean says.

Cas shrugs. "Well, I can't let your soul get eaten." He looks at Dean, into his eyes, dark in the dying light of sunset. "You're my best friend."

Dean smiles a soft smile. "Thanks," he says, tone serious. "'Cause frankly? Not sure I'd go in there without you."

Cas rolls his eyes. "I know."

In the narrow space between them, Cas's hand finds Dean's. It's a brief, reassuring squeeze, just to say, _I'm here, we'll be fine_. But Dean doesn't let it go. He moves his fingers, lets them intertwine with Cas's so their hold doesn't slip away. His palm is soft and warm, and feels so right inside his, Cas never wants to let it go either.

There's no backing out now.

"Let's get it over with."

With his free hand, Dean grabs the handle. He pushes it down and, with a deep, long breath, he opens the door.


End file.
